Fair Is the Rose (12 page)

"I thought I knew plenty."

Her eyes locked with his. "Run, Cain.
Let's save those men back in Falling Water, let's save ourselves.
Then you can run and never look back. We both can."

The prairie breeze kicked at his hair, the sun glittered in his eyes, eyes like pieces of a winter sky. For one brief second, she believed they had connected, that they had formed an understanding, become like two creatures in the forest
who
recognize each other despite the cloak of darkness surrounding them. But the moment shattered. Cain spurred his
Ap
into a gallop. They rode back to Falling Water as if wildfire licked at their heels. Christal returned to the camp disheartened by the fact that Macaulay Cain was not the man she hoped he was.

It was dusk when they returned to camp. Cain watered and fed his horse before he freed Christal to begin another supper of beans and biscuits. Her spirit rebelled at being a slave, but her mind wanted survival. She accepted for the moment that she had no choice but to stumble her way through the preparation of another meal for her keepers.

She stirred the beans, the heat of the campfire nauseating her. The smell made her light-headed and more than once she was forced to sit down. Besides a half-eaten biscuit that morning, she'd not eaten since she was kidnapped. She had to keep up her strength, but if tonight was like the last, the offer of food would be too little, come too late. She was supposed to serve the men their meal, prepare the pot that was to be taken to feed those up at the saloon, and put another pot on the fire to boil to wash the rancid grease from the tinware. Last night, by the time she had done everything, the meal was over with, the beans eaten; all she had left was the gang's leavings. She vowed to die of starvation rather than feast upon Kineson's rejected beans.

She served the men, then rested her head on the stones of the fireplace and closed her eyes. Cain had just helped himself to another plate, finishing off the pot. There would be no dinner for her again tonight.

She slid to the ground and tried not to think of her hunger. Every muscle in her body ached with fatigue. The ride on Cain's
Ap
had made her derriere sore, the lugging of iron pots strained her back. With no food to sustain her, she could feel her energy and spirit seep from her soul.

Cain nudged her shoulder and she opened her eyes. He had finished, but instead of abandoning his plate on the needle-covered ground, he held it out to her. Half full.

He was the captor taking care of his captive. She could find the strength to eat his leftovers or starve. She looked down at the fork, the fork that he'd eaten from, that had slid between his tongue and palate, the way his tongue had slid in her mouth when he'd kissed her.

Every reason told her to save her pride and reject his offer, but the instinct to survive overruled reason. She accepted the plate and ate Cain's beans. And despite her attempts to will it away, that strange guilt-ridden gratitude came slinking back because he'd spared her from having to eat from a more vile man's plate.

He waited for her to wash the dishes before he took her into the woods. All the men watched when night fell, night that came early and cold in the mountains. Like coyotes waiting to move in on another's kill, they watched her, some licking their lips as if she were some land of delicacy they wanted to taste again. She was almost grateful when Cain grabbed her by the hand and led her outside the ring of firelight. He didn't pull her behind the shed; instead they walked deep into the woods, and her heart pounded with renewed anxiety, the men's laughter following her like the howl of predators.

They wandered to the bottom of the falls where the water thundered down into a pool, the noise deafening because it was night and she couldn't see it. Cain led her to a boulder, moving in darkness as if he were a cat, sure and lithe. He pulled her up against him and they sat for a very long time, hearing only the Wind River tumble from above, seeing only the few stars that could wink between the silhouetted
canopy
of fir.

It was a strange communion. They were there because he was supposed to be raping her and by some wild mercy chose to spare her. They sat on the large cold boulder waiting for the appropriate amount of time for the offense to be committed, Christal held prisoner by an emotion that intertwined gratitude and hatred until she couldn't discern either, Cain silent, his emotions, if he possessed any at all, undisclosed, unfathomable.

He held her lightly, not touching except for his arms that wrapped around her waist like warm chains. It was August—the days were hot and swarming with mosquitoes—but the nights were bitter cold. She shivered against her will and longed for the shawl that had been packed in her trunk, last seen lashed to the top of the Overland stage. Around her, the woods were menacing in their frozen stillness, and she frightened herself when she thought about the creatures out there, unseen night animals that could see them.

"Should we be here?" she asked softly. They were close enough that despite the roar of the fall, she knew he could hear her. "Might there be bears out here?"

"Are you bleeding?"

"Bleeding?"

"Are you wearing rags between your legs? Are you having your monthly time?"

For one brief second she was struck by the awful terror that he needed to know such an intimate thing because he did intend to rape her. She stuttered, "W-why do you ask?"

He answered succinctly.
"Because bears can smell blood a mile away.
It's only dangerous to sit here if one of us is bleeding. Are you?"

"No." She was grateful for the darkness because it hid her blush. Miss Bulfinch, her beloved governess from years ago, would roll in her grave if she knew her charge had been forced to discuss her female nature with this outlaw.

Cain grew silent, as if he was pondering something. He'd been brooding all evening and his mood made her uneasy. She shifted nervously within his embrace until his arms became steel and forced her to be still.

Finally he said, "I've been wondering. . . . Why would a woman such as
yourself
be traveling alone on that Overland coach? We didn't expect to find a woman on that coach. It wasn't planned for.
Where's your people
? Where's your family, Christal?"

His use of her first name made her pause. Her answers—lies—were on the tip of her tongue before his questions were out, well rehearsed after three years of use. But when she heard her name, spoken in his rough, low voice, his questions became unbearably personal. And she found she didn't want to lie to him.

"You're not answering me, girl."

"I don't want to talk about myself. I told you that."

"You have no choice. I'm making you. Tell me where you were going the other day. And tell me why you had to go there."

"No," she whispered, bracing herself for the onslaught of anger. She didn't have to wait long.

He gripped her arms. His voice had an accusatory edge. "You're running, aren't you?"

She didn't answer. He grew furious. "I want to know why and I want to know who you're running from."

She tensed, and she knew he felt it because he pulled her back against his chest, trapping her. "Tell me," he
said,
his breath hot against her cheek, hushed by the roar of the falls.

She again felt that strange urge to trust him. They had so many things in common. His home had been destroyed and so had hers; he was on the run and so was she; he had felt the noose around his neck, and every nightmare she had ever had about the death of her parents had ended with her at the gallows, soon to be executed for Baldwin Didier's crimes. But was that enough to trust him? She couldn't be sure.

"What does it matter why I was on that coach?" she whispered. "We'll never see each other after Tuesday. This is all for naught."
And when that ransom comes, you'll be running for your life from the marshals. In fact, I won't be surprised if they shoot you dead before you can even leave Falling Water.
The thought made her heart drop. For some reason, the thought of him dying bothered her. There was a kinship between them, an understanding that could have, in different circumstances, led to something more. She believed he was another man deep down, a good man, but hidden and scarred by a violent exterior. He'd yet to really harm her except to take away her freedom and he'd protected her, even at the risk of his own hide.

Against her back, she felt his heart beat in tandem with the rush of water, his body heat a blanket around her. She tried to erase the picture of him bleeding at her feet, mortally shot by a marshal come to save them, but she couldn't and a strange, unwanted regret filled her.

"Let's go," he said, shoving off the rock.

She followed, unable to think of anything except the dreaded moment when the hand clamped warmly on hers would turn cold.

"Gimme that mirror," Boone growled at Jake.

Cain and Christal had just returned from the falls and they stood in the shadows, watching the scene play out before them. Christal was glad there was going to be a fight. She hated both men, Boone, for his crude stares, and Jake, for his skeevy smile. Besides, the simmering hostilities between the two took the attention from her. And she didn't want the men's stares. Not after going into the woods with Cain. Her unwanted sense of shame was enough.

The tensions ran high as Boone and Jake circled each other in the glow of firelight. Boone reached for the mirror once, twice, then without warning, punched Jake right in the gut. A scuffle ensued and Jake came at Boone with flying fists. Zeke tried to split the men apart, but then Zeke caught a punch across the jaw and joined in the fray, quickly forgetting he was there to stop it. A full-scale war was about to ignite when Cain stepped into the crescent of light.

All the men
paused,
clearly terrified of irritating him. Cain glanced at them, his expression vaguely contemptuous, before he sat by the fire. The unspoken threat alone caused the men to drop their fists. They eyed Cain belligerently, as if they were children—albeit dangerous children—who'd just been caught by the schoolmaster. The gang members went their separate ways, Jake grumbling and tossing the mirror into a pile of clothing.

Christal stared at the pile, the clothing suddenly familiar. She ran to it, spurred on by the realization that these men had been fighting over her belongings. She frantically began to grab at the articles, hating the thought that these outlaws had touched her only possessions with their dirty hands. But before she could gather much, Kineson ambled down the path from the saloon.

"Git away from there, girlie.
Them things belong to us now," he said, a nasty smile lurking behind his lips.

"But they're mine! You took them from my trunk!" she gasped, anger staining her cheeks. She clutched at her only other
dress—
a faded blue calico—and retorted, "You'll be getting enough money from Overland. You don't need to peddle my meager possessions!"

"If we can get a penny fer 'em, then that's a penny well take." Kineson stepped to her to remove the dress from her hands. She pulled to take it back and they got into a tug-of-war. He let go; she stumbled back, almost into Cain's arms.